Caste eBook

“It is the accursed Sahib,” Hunsa snarled
between his grinding teeth. He brooded over the
advent of the messenger and racked his animal brain
for some scheme to accomplish his mission of murder,
and counteract the other’s influence.
And presently a bit of rare deviltry crept into his
mind, joint partner with the murder thought.
If he could but kill the Chief and have the blame
of it cast upon the Sahib, who, no doubt, would have
his interviews with Amir Khan alone.

During the time Hunsa had been there, several times
in the palace, somewhat of a privileged character,
known to be connected with the Gulab, he had familiarised
himself with the plan of the marble building:
the stairways that ran down to the central court; the
many passages; the marble fret-work screen niches
and mysterious chambers.

Either Hunsa or Sookdee was now always trailing Barlow—­his
every move was known. And then, as if some evil
genii had taken a spirit hand in the guidance of events,
Hunsa’s chance came. Barlow, who had tried
three times to see Amir Khan, one day received a message
at the gate that he was to come back that evening,
when the Chief, having said his prayers, would give
him a private audience.

Hunsa had seen Barlow making his way from the serai
where he camped with his horse toward the palace,
and hurrying with the swift celerity of a jungle creature,
he reached the gate first. His head wrapped in
the folds of a turban so that his ugly face was all
but hidden, he was talking to the guard when Barlow
gave the latter his yellow slip of passport; and as
the guard left his post and entered the dim entrance
to call up the stairway for one to usher in the Afghan,
Hunsa slipped nonchalantly through the gate and stood
in the shadow of a jutting wall, his black body and
drab loin-cloth merging into the gloom.

CHAPTER XX

“Is the one alone?” Amir Khan asked when
a servant had presented Barlow’s yellow slip
of paper.

“But for the orderly that is with him.”

“Tell him to enter, and go where your ears will
remain safe upon your head.”

The bearer withdrew and Captain Barlow entered, preceded
by the orderly, who, with a deep salaam announced:

“Sultan Amir Khan, it is Ayub Alli who would
have audience.” Then he stepped to one
side, and stood erect against the wall.

“Salaam, Chief,” Barlow said with a sweep
of a hand to his forehead, and Amir Khan from his
seat in a black ebony chair inlaid with pearl-shell
and garnets, returned the salutation, asking:
“And what favour would Ayub Alli ask?”

“A petition such as your servant would make
is but for the ears of Amir Khan.”

The black eyes of the Pindari, deep set under the
shaggy eyebrows, hung upon the speaker’s face
with the fierce watchful stab of a falcon’s.

Barlow saw the distrust, the suspicion. He unslung
from his waist his heavy pistol, took the tulwar
from the wide brass-studded belt about his waist,
and tendered them to the orderly saying: “It
is a message of peace but also it is alone for the
ears of Amir Khan.”